Song of the Wind

Dear Pilgrim,

After weeks of donning light shells and thin finger gloves, winter finally settles into the neighbourhood. Everyone expected him weeks, even months ago, with the gale force tenacity he bellowed last year. But no, winter waited. Christmas passed brown and windy, the breathy exhale always accompanying the sunshine. We embraced the sun, and cringed to face the wind. The constant droning and moaning, piercing exposed sinuses, taunting the out-of-breath explorer, dismaying man and beast as it propels flames across the landscape—it grates our minds and aggravates our souls.

But if we want sunshine, we must accept the wind. The healing balm that coaxes us outdoors, with upturned faces, viewing the golden world, comes with the wind. The draining, changing, threatening wind—unpredictable, flighty, menacing—this keeps company with sunshine.

But what is the wind, really? Just blowing and blowing air, invisible, harmful only because of what it stirs up, or knocks over, or carries around. But just the wind . . . it’s just a breath. It tells us we are here, seasons change, nature’s garments flutter and flounce. It teaches us to hammer down what is important, and let the little things fly. It informs us of change or danger, blowing dust off our cars, cramming dirt into our windowsills. It gives and takes, always exchanging what it holds, never grasping it long, always taking it somewhere else.

The wind, it tells me that I too am vapour, practically invisible, a constant droning till I die away, moving things about through work, rearranging, then my body will lie quiet. The important stuff needs securing, the trivial needs shooing . . . and strangely enough, it’s the vital things of life that are invisible: relationships, looking rightly at the world, knowing why we are here, who we belong to, and where we are going. If we can’t nail these things, we haven’t much substance to carry, and will feel empty passing through the tunnel of time.

Because one day there won’t be wind, we won’t be scurrying. We will know what is truly valuable. And we’ll either love it, or shrink away from it forever.

God, help us now to love Your reality, Your unchanging nature, Your faithful hand, wherever You lead us. Because You are good, and want good for us, help us trust Your heart, and not chase after the empty wind.

Storm Tales

Dear Pilgrim,

The gale churns into full momentum: uncanny winds—not so odd for this region or unprecedented during our chinooking winters—but stronger and longer and unexpected-like. Warm weather all week, so why blow now? Then the brown clouds begin drifting, building, obscuring vision, threatening ominous. It’s not dirt, it’s smoke.

Driving home into the gale force, the wall rises hundreds of feet above the city, filling the coulee, reckless and morphing and serious. Smoke holds no concern for the lung or eye it stings, the sight it obliterates, the terror it invokes. Smoke warns: smoke is a gift.

We learn the news: six massive prairie fires devouring to our West. Then, the palpitations shoot up like flares: evacuating orders and rumours and warnings. What if we must evacuate?

So, if we had to get out in five minutes, what would we take? What would we take? What’s valuable? Clothes: no. Books: replaceable, except those nine ancient encyclopaedias—my Grandfather’s first commission on graduating auctioneer school. But they are heavy, and cumbersome . . . and the information is probably obsolete by now.

I throw a few pieces of clothing in a bag, along with my passport and a few coloured pieces of paper we use for money. The computers, the hard drive, old journals . . . these contain soul journey . . . these cannot be replaced.

Then we wait, bags packed by the door . . . and how do we live now? A pang gnaws my heart when I go to put a DVD in the computer: this is non-chalante, in the face of impending tragedy. But then, what can we really do? Everything’s prepared, after all, it’s just the two of us. I feel for the families: frantic to stow pictures, recipes, memories in laundry basket and cardboard box. It’s nice to be unconcerned—weird, because there is so much worry and desperation out there—but nice.

So we wait it out, watching the neighbours across the street, checking updates . . . and the sky turns out the lights, so we wait in the dark. And we must walk in the light we have, while we wait.

So, we munch popcorn, and work on hand-made Christmas gifts, and watch a movie, and wait. And eventually, the warning is lifted, the fire is controlled, and we can go to our own beds to sleep.

The next morning, we wake to perfect calm, and the fading memory of flurried prayers, hurried packing, waves of worry, and the brief panic evaporates in the light of a new day.

We did not suffer loss, just a few hours of the daunting great unknown. And today, I don’t want to live disengaged, dulled by shock or distracted with unimportant clutter. I want this unconcerned happiness to fill my heart and transform my every-day dullness. Because at the end of the day, God’s children are secure—all that’s really important is totally safe, and all the other stuff doesn’t really matter.

And it’s the big storms that teach us how we should live everyday . . . and the little storms that reveal what we really believe.

(Photos courtesy of the weather network.)

Final Dance

She lets go her yellow sash, he throws red ascot to the heavens, she steps out of golden ballgown, leaving it in heaps on the ground. Underneath, stark, bleaching, boring brown emerges.

Why do they de-robe, when everyone else clamours for layers? How can they stand there, exposed and chilly, tossed about by fierce icy-breathed winds? Pine and Spruce snuggle into their green jackets, and standing near them, the Pilgrim feels safe, protected, and warm. Pine breaks the winds bellows; Spruce bids the whistler hush, and all breathe relief in their shadow.

But the others: what of Lombard and Ash and Manitoba Maple and Poplar? What of the bushes and ornamental trees? They look so lonely, so abandoned, the first raid of Winter leaving them poor and helpless. How will they survive the coming struggle?

The hermit forest, even now they gather into themselves, away from us, away from each other, into lone silence. I hear her groan as she recedes into her core, bidding me and all the beautiful days of summer farewell. Mute, except for moaning and scratching when the wind blows, they stand braced for fury.

Spruce and Pine cheer us all year round, consistent, quiet, calming. They seem comfortable, and comforted, and make us feel at ease.

But these deciduous ones, their fate upbraids our sense of dignity. Shockingly bare, helpless in the face of forces beyond their strength, the only way they can live is to nearly die.

Spruce and Pine grow constant; always there, we soon forget to look and appreciate their progress.

But these hermits, we cheer for them. We dance in their shed dresses, and glory in their diverse wardrobes. We breathe deep and happy when light green buds appear, because warmth comes to stay then. We picnic and walk under clapping emeralds in summer’s days. And we crunch and race through golds and ambers in autumn’s rhythmic celebration. We mourn their death, and revel in their resurrection.

We wouldn’t love life of Spring so much if we did not have the near-death of Winter. For whatever reason, we watch and glory and marvel more after pain and silence and isolation. So the autumn flurries do not dizzy us, the winter gales cannot dishearten us, the brooding muted months cannot hamper us, only deepen our delight.

We must dig deep for life now too. And we would forget to . . . if not for the trees.

Song of the Leaves

Dear Pilgrim,

Leaves scuttle and turn handsprings, racing rubber tires to the stop line, rushing to get out of the way. They laugh their way along, one great final fling in the season’s dimming lights. Their purpose served, their role played, their moment passed, and they fall like a curtain to close autumn’s act.

Why do they flutter so, when their day is done? Script concluded, all their lines performed, no more cues from phloem and xylem; no more prompting from mother tree, no more food. But they won’t die without a last dance. And the very winds that drive them from their trees become the music to their farewell jig.

Yes, they will settle into some lee or nook or grassy bed, out of the wind’s grasp, out of the elements, and there they will decompose, to give life to others. They don’t have life to fly in the face of their demise; but they still fly. Their green and golden dresses fade from the lights of summer’s scene, but they twirl anyway. They are going off stage for good, but they skip and tap dance out.

Why? Why not just fall like lead and lay where you land, and let yourselves be forgotten? Or why not mound and pile at the base of your trees, and make an edifice—however shortly lived—to your glory? Or why not moan and clog and haunt us with your death, menacing our lives with memory of yours?

Why? Because they groan with hope, longing for consummation. Their scene closes; the final act is yet to be performed. In life, they sing the Creator’s song, clapping their hands to His breathes of wind, lifting limb and hand in exultation. Now stiffening, they echo crisp and clear the song of ever-deeper life. They touched the sky in life, saw rain and hail and snow and mist, held bird and secrets from the air. And now they fall to earth, and touch it with heaven’s promise: little taps of leaf-Morse-code along the pavement, gentle caresses on grass that’s seen abuse and beating all year. They even travel to pond and ditch, where stagnant waters ripple with ticklish glee at their arrival.

Leaf’s demise brings the promise of winter rest, and the hope of spring. Trees always seem happy. I think it’s because they have learned the secret of being miserable without despairing, the way to endure pain without suffering, the way to die in order to live. And they teach it to their children, whose pods and seeds fly like the leaves and nestle in fertile crevices, spreading the happiness of hopeful labouring through a groaning creation.

In all your fallings today, may you reach for the hope of life, resurrection life, that brings beauty from demise, joy from misery, glory from barrenness. Listen to the song of the leaves, and take heart, because Life's play belongs to the Creator.